


The Price of Freedom

by transmarkcohen



Series: Highest Art Sort of Series [2]
Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-06-29 19:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 6,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transmarkcohen/pseuds/transmarkcohen
Summary: Highest Art alternate sequel. Read Highest Art first.Roger doesn't know how he'll ever get out of this.





	1. Liberty And Revenge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind/gifts).



    Roger woke up into a chilly darkness. Cool wind blew through the room, and Mark's steady breathing-as he was still sleeping-metronomed the room and Roger's thoughts to its tempo.

    Roger breathed a sigh of relief. He could be alone for now. He absolutely did not want to deal with Mark at the moment.

    Everything that happened had driven Roger nearly insane-he wasn't entirely sure how he wasn't insane already. He closed his eyes, then opened them and got out of bed quietly. He walked to the other room, nearly tiptoeing.

    The kids were still asleep. Roger smiled slightly at that. In their tumultuous world, at least they could find a bit of peace.

    Roger walked over and smoothed Revenge's hair. Mark had named their son-even though he looked more like Roger, who liked to call him R. Mark didn't mind that (thank God). Liberty slept in the other bed. She looked more like Mark, though of course she shared some of Roger's features. Roger smiled a bit and then sighed heavily. It had been seven years and Roger still couldn't remember whether he'd wanted kids back then. Of course he wanted them now, but.

    Roger froze as he heard a noise form the other room. Mark was groaning-no, yawning-making some sort of noise-as he woke up. "I love you," whispered Roger, and he quickly ran back to his room.

    An amused look appeared on Mark's face as his husband entered. "Where were you?" he asked in that calm voice. Oh, God, Roger hated that voice. It meant Mark was angry or-maybe worse-happy. Happy to do something to him.

    "I-I was saying good morning to the kids," Roger said carefully, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. "Did you need me?"

    "Of course I did," said Mark, getting up and taking Roger's hand and leading him back to bed. "Take off your clothes. This is going to be fun."

     _Fuck,_ thought Roger.

 

    Later, Roger was in the kitchen, making breakfast for the kids. They were sitting at the table along with Mark, who was wearing his favorite blue hoodie. Roger didn't know why he still wore that old thing. But he wasn't about to ask  _Mark._

Liberty was talking excitedly to her father. "I read a book about the Zodiac Killer," she said. "They were gonna catch him but they got his skin color wrong! And the police drove right by him!" She laughed at that and Mark smiled, pulling her onto his lap.

    "Yeah, he's great," Mark said. "One of my favorites. Especially because he never got caught."

    "The Axeman of New Orleans is better," Revenge argued, crossing his arms.

    "He's good too. Hey, Liberty, why don't you recite that rhyme I taught you?" said Mark.

    "Okay!" Liberty excitedly stood up and began.

     " _Lizzie Borden took an axe_  
      _And gave her mother forty whacks_  
      _When she saw what she had done,  
      She gave her mother forty-one." _

Mark clapped, grinning. "That's great!" he said. He glanced over at Roger. "Clap for her, Roger."

     Roger did, gently, again trying not to show how terrified he was of Mark. The kids couldn't know. He tried to protect them from the world-well-as much as he could with Mark's messed-up ideology. He couldn't let them know... 

     "Breakfast," said Roger, serving it. Mark waved it away. 

     "I'll eat later," he said. "I've got a job today."

     Both of the kids gasped in excitement. "Are you gonna kill someone?" Liberty asked.

     Mark stood up, laughing, and ruffled her hair. "Of course I am," he said, smiling. "And I've got my best knife, too." He took it out and showed Liberty, who poked it and looked at it in awe. Mark glanced at Roger, who'd put down his own breakfast, but was still standing next to the table and not eating. "Eat," Mark commanded.

    Roger quickly sat down in the chair and nodded, beginning to eat. Mark smiled again. "I'll see you all later," he said, kissing Liberty and Revenge on their cheeks and Roger on the lips.

    "Aw, can't we come with you?" Revenge complained.

    "Not yet," said Mark. "Roger, show them _Psycho_ today. And kids-I'll let you come to a murder as soon as you've killed someone. Which I won't let you do yet. But it'll come sooner than you think." He smiled wide. "Bye. I love you all." He left quickly. 

    When Mark was out of view, Roger put down his fork and stared at his plate for a bit.

     _Fuck._

But he thought something else, too-something better.

     _Do it for the kids. Help them, since you can't help yourself._


	2. Roger

        Roger was up late, doing laundry. Because of Mark's murder that day, there was so much blood on his clothes...Mark liked when that happened. Since the laundry was dumped on him, Roger did not. Mark never helped. He considered himself to be the working person of the family and Roger the stay-at-home dad. Essentially, a housewife. Though of course Mark would never use that term with him. But he came close. 

        Roger sighed and put Mark's clothes in, sitting down in between the kids' clothes and the machine. Forty-five minutes. At least Mark had gone to sleep and he could be alone. He didn't want Mark to-god, he couldn't think it. He didn't want Mark to do that to him right now. 

        Roger ran his finger through the dirt and grime next to him, tracing something. A word-a name-an exit. An escape. The word turned into a drawing of an escape plan. But with a ticket for one. So Roger wiped it away with one swipe of his palm and brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them and wishing someone had an answer. Was it his fault he'd gotten here? A punishment from some deity, entity, god, human, alien?

        Who had put him there?

        Or had everything been entirely his fault?

        The washing machine spun into the night.

 

        A few years passed. The twins' tenth birthday was tomorrow, and Mark was leading Roger through the department store, holding his hand and looking for gifts for their children. The kids were at home-Mark believed that he'd taught them enough they could take care of themselves. Roger hoped he was right. Or maybe it was the only thing he agreed with Mark on. Regardless, they were in a Sears, and looking for ideal gifts proved to be troubling.

        Mark scowled, seeing some bright, happy movie. "What is this?" he asked. He read the summary on the back and his frown deepened. "There's no death in it!"

        "Maybe," Roger said, just above a whisper, "maybe, just this time, it doesn't need death."

        Mark glared at Roger, who cast his eyes down. "Of course it needs death. I'm not raising my children to-" He stopped as somebody passed him. "-to think everybody deserves to live. What a stupid thought." 

        He marched off to the horror section, this time leaving Roger behind. Roger wrapped his arms around himself. When would the nightmare end? 


	3. Curriculum

         A few more years had passed, with Roger barely noticing sometimes, and the twins were twelve now. This was a sort of more normal day-well, as normal as it could be. Roger was making lunch in the kitchen while Mark taught the kids with one of his classes.

        "So," Mark was saying, pointing to a diagram on the mobile chalkboard that they'd had for years, "if you get the victim right here, they won't die immediately, but they'll be in extreme pain for a long,  _long_ while." The kids were watching Mark with a rapt intensity. 

        Liberty raised her hand. "But what if you got them on the other limb?" she asked. "Would that be better?" Mark frowned, considering the question.

        "No and yes," he answered. "You see..."

        Roger's mind drifted off somewhere else.  _Happiness. Happiness. Happiness. C'mon, think of that._

“...and if you keep the body, you can...”

         _Do what you regularly do to me? I mean, is it-does he-what am I talking about. Yes, it is. He does._

“So we’re going to have a pop quiz now-“

        “Aw, come on!”

        “Don’t. Interrupt. Me.”

         _He’s using that voice. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Roger’s hands began to tremble. The knife he was holding nearly slipped away from him. But he clung to it, clung to it, as if it was a lifeline, a lifesaver, and he would drown if he let go. His knuckles were turning white as he gripped it. His eyes filled with tears, his breathing was fast, he-

        He saw a chance in that knife.

         _What if I..._

_No, I couldn’t. That would make me as bad as him._

_And the kids. They need-they need both of us.  
_

He put down the knife, rested his hands on the counter, and stared down at it. 

        Holy fucking shit. 


	4. The Test

_Fourteen. They're fourteen._

_Has he been right all these years?_

_Am I...the one who's wrong?_

_God._

_How the hell do I escape this?_

_Fourteen..._

\--

    Liberty woke up early. The light in her room was dim. She thought maybe-just maybe-Dad would let her do it without taking the test.

    No, that wouldn't happen. Dad said they had to take the test to do it.

    Roger stood in the back of her mind, quiet and reserved, like he'd been all of Liberty's life. Of course he was her father, but-he could be distant.

    She got out of bed, snuck over to Revenge, and shook him hard.

    He groaned but woke up. "Ughhhh," he said. "What the fu-"

    "Today's the day of the test!" Liberty tried to whisper, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, barely able to contain her excitement. "Once we take it, Dad will let us-"

    "Yeah, yeah, I know," Revenge said, pushing his blanket off and sliding his feet into black slippers just in front of his bed. "I mean-I get it. You're excited. But I don't see why we have to take a  _test_ to-"

    Liberty lightly punched his arm. "To see if we're ready, stupid!" She laughed, swinging her pillow that she was still holding. "You can't just kill someone and not know what you're doing!"

    Revenge rolled his eyes. "You're crazy," he said.

    Liberty grinned. "Well, that just might help with this situation, won't it?" she asked.

\--

    Mark's children were in front of him, sitting at their desks. He looked down at them with pride. They'd done so well in his class throughout the years, there was no way they wouldn't pass this test. He handed them each a single sheet of paper with words on it. He set a timer. And they began. 

    Mark leaned against the wall, observing. Liberty and Revenge were both deep in thought. He smiled. They would make wonderful serial killers, just like him. And when they grew up, they would raise their children to be serial killers, continuing Mark's bloodline and eliminating the unworthy population.

    At some point, the timer dinged. Mark picked up both tests in a single swipe of his hands. "I'll be grading these," he said in a nonchalant tone. "Pick them up in fifteen minutes."

    Liberty and Revenge looked excitedly at each other.

    After fifteen minutes, they both raced to Mark's room, where he sat at his desk. He looked up and smiled. "Congratulations," he told them, proud. "You both passed." 


	5. A Question

     Roger woke before Mark, as usual. He stared at the blank white ceiling above them. Jeez-why did he stay? That’s what people usually asked anyway, isn’t it?

     Mark rolled over. He was awake.

     “What are you thinking about?” He asked Roger, his tone polite.

     Roger froze. His muscles froze up.  _Search for a lie-quick_ \- No, no, not now. “You,” he answered relatively truthfully, albeit hesitantly.

     Mark smiled. “Why’s that?” He asked.

     “I-I-“ Roger wasn’t sure if he should say it. “What if-what if I fell out of love with you?” 

     Mark’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Have you?”

     “No-I just meant-“ Roger took a deep breath, knowing the answer. “Would you be okay if I started dating another partner?”

     Mark laughed. It was short and stung Roger. “And how would you do that?” Mark asked. “Who would love you like I do?”

     “Well-“

     “Don’t interrupt.” Mark rolled back over. “Go get breakfast ready.” 

     Roger nodded, tears forming. “Yes. Yes, of-o-of course.”

    “Yes....what?”

    “Yes, sir.”

    Mark smiled to himself.  _The bitch knows his place._


	6. The Olive

Roger was beginning to get dinner ready when Mark approached and said, “No, no, I’ll do that tonight.” Roger turned to him, confused, and Mark nodded his head towards the table. Roger quickly went over and sat down, observing Mark and trying not to show that he was, well, terrified. Mark had poisoned him for fun on occasion, after all.

The kids were at the table as well. They were silent, curious why Mark was making dinner. Was it especially good? Was Mark going to be like the Vampire of Düsseldorf and feed them blood? Liberty thought to herself that she wanted to taste blood. Maybe that would be her thing as a serial killer…

Roger watched as Mark served the plates. Three bowls of spaghetti in front of Liberty, Revenge, and Mark, and...a single olive on Roger’s plate. He barely had the courage to speak up. “What-“

“It’s your dinner,” said Mark, almost snapping but keeping his voice even in front of the kids. “Eat it and then go to our room. Wait there until I come back.” 

“Yes...alright,” Roger said quietly. He ate the olive. He didn’t really like olives. He went back to their room. 

“Why’d you give him that?” asked Liberty. 

“Oh, it’s the last meal of a famous serial killer,” replied Mark, making sure Roger could hear him. “It’s a great... _ honor _ ...to have.” 


	7. After/Finding A Friend

“Fine. A few minutes.”

 

Roger breathed a sigh of relief when Mark left. He could stay inside the classroom for a few more minutes. For once, he had time to himself.

 

That is, until the teacher walked in.

 

Roger quickly stood up from the chair he’d sat in as this guy came in. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know-I didn’t mean to-I’ll, uh, I’ll put it back-I’ll help you clean up, too, if you need me to-”

 

The teacher frowned. “It’s perfectly fine,” he said. “I offer my class as a sanctuary to those who need it.” He pointed to the SAFE SPACE triangle sticker on the door. “As for cleaning up, I would appreciate some help, but you don’t need to-“

 

Roger had already started, nodding quickly. “I get it. Yeah. Okay. I’m starting.” He pushed the chair in and began to pick up things off the floor.

 

“No, sir, please, it’s fine.” Roger looked up at the man, his eyes darting. “Are you sure?” asked Roger, already heading to the trash can to throw away the scraps of paper. “I can-I mean-I’m sorry. I was just trying to-trying to help.” Roger breathed a shaky breath. “But I get it. That’s not what you wanted. Okay, do whatever it is you’re...going to-do to me now.” Roger’s arms relaxed, hanging limply at his sides, remembering last night after the olive. He’d sped up at the end of his sentence.

 

The teacher frowned. “Are you alright?” He asked.

 

“N-”

 

“Yes.”

 

The two turned to see Mark standing in the doorway. He smiled-for once, not cruelly. “I’m sorry if my husband was disruptive, Mr. Fowler. We were picking up our children from school. And he wanted to stay behind for a few minutes. Check his phone. He usually has such a busy day he doesn’t have time to.” Mark laughed, and Roger felt himself retreating into himself. “House-husband. I do appreciate the work he does. And I love him an awful lot.”

 

Mr. Fowler smiled back at Mark. “Well, then,” he said. “I suppose you two had better get going-it’s late and I have a class to set up for tomorrow.”

“Actually, I had a few questions about the curriculum?” Mark stepped inside the classroom, surveying it. Roger hoped to God Mark couldn’t see how terrified he was. Mr. Fowler had said this was supposed to be a safe space. A sanctuary. And now Mark had come into it. Just like every other time Roger had attempted to hide. “Roger, please go out to the kids. They’re very hungry after such an exciting day.”

 

_Shit._

 

So they’d gone through with it. They’d killed someone.

 

“Yes, Mark,” Roger said, and headed out. He didn’t notice Mr. Fowler’s concerned glance at him as he walked out of the door of what was his last hope of escaping.


	8. Trust, As A Dagger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with most of this fanfic, extreme trigger warning.

Roger was back in the classroom again. B03. 

 

He rubbed his arms nervously, wondering when the teacher would walk in. He had to-well. 

 

Mr. Fowler had to help him. Right? 

 

Did he even deserve help? 

 

_ Shut up!  _ Roger yelled at his mind.  _ That’s just what Mark thinks. And after years of treating you like an object that he can do whatever he wants to, after years of the assault and abuse, that’s why you think that. Most people only experience sexual assault once. And me?  _

 

Roger squeezed his eyes shut. No, no, no. He could not be fucking thinking about that. 

 

The door opened. “Hello?” 

 

Roger opened his eyes and slowly dropped his arms. “Mr. Fowler. Hi. I’m Roger Davis, I was picking up my kids the other day...yeah. Um...I saw that you’re a licensed therapist.” 

 

Mr. Fowler was handsome. Dark hair, and he had a beard. His pale blue eyes showed concern. “Yes, that’s correct.” He stepped toward Roger, who reminded himself that he could trust this person. “What is it?” 

 

“I wanted to…I mean I need a…” Roger pushed his hair back, out of his face. Nervous. More so than he’d ever been. 

 

“You need a therapist?” 

 

“Y-yes.” 

 

Mr. Fowler’s eyes were concerned. “You’re nervous.” 

 

Roger nodded, avoiding his eyes. 

 

“Well, Roger, then let’s start with this-my name is Evan.” He stuck his hand out for Roger to shake. 

 

Roger eyed it warily. “No tricks?” He asked. “Nothing up your sleeve? What about payment?” 

 

“I can tell you’re not in the right kind of situation to pay. And no, no tricks, I assure you.” Mr. Fowler smiled. A kind, warm, gentle smile. Shakily, Roger smiled back, and shook his hand. 

 

“Evan,” Roger said. “I think I-I think I like that name.” 

 

Mr. Fowler-no, Evan, Roger reminded himself-pulled a couch out from the edge of the room and patted it for Roger to sit down. “Why don’t we start now? Do you have a while?” 

 

“Yeah, just a-just a little bit. The kids are…doing their, um, extra-curricular and Mar-Mark is-Mark is at work.” By the time Roger reached the couch, he didn’t sit down on it, only collapsed. 

 

Evan sat down on a desk. “Why don’t we start with why you’re here?”

 

“Because-Mark-because-yeah. Um, yes, um. I mean. Um.” 

 

“It’s okay, Roger,” Evan said gently. “You can trust me.” 

 

Roger turned to face him, looking straight into his eyes. “Can I?”

 

“What’s happened in your life that makes you think you can’t?” 

 

“Mark’s poisoned me for fun.” 

 

The words tumbled out of Roger’s mouth. He hadn’t intended to say them. He clamped his hand over his mouth, scared that Mark was...that he was there. Watching. Listening. Waiting. Maybe today would be Roger’s last. Hell, he might actually  _ thank  _ the bastard if it was. 

 

Evan froze. He was still for a bit. “So I was right,” he said quietly. “You’re in an abusive relationship.” 

 

Roger nodded shakily. “Y-yes,” he said, forcing himself to take his hand off his mouth, “he…he’s a manipulator. An abuser. A...a  _ fucking bastard.” _

 

Maybe Roger could actually reveal his life to this person. Maybe he’d finally found somebody he could trust. 

 

“I see.” 

 

“He does this thing every day,” Roger said hurriedly, straining to get the words out before he was too scared again to do so, “where he-I mean, he thinks I’m an object, I think. He doesn’t really see me as a person. I think. I don’t really know. He-doesn’t like people. He’s killed people! He’s a fucking murderer!” Roger squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face. “He’s the Phantom of New York. The serial killer.” 

 

Evan stilled. He’d already been still, but something about that-god, was Roger telling the truth? 

 

One glance at his client told Evan yes. 

 

“And?” Evan asked. He wouldn’t report Mark to the police. That would make everything worse for Roger. 

 

Roger was wondering if he was destroying his life by revealing it. Of course he wanted this life destroyed. But. He didn’t know. Maybe it was still Mark messing with his mind. And what would happen to the kids? Roger’s kids, who were so goddamn fucked up from Mark’s influence, could they even play a part in normal society? Roger knew “normal” wasn’t a thing, but he did know he didn’t want his kids to become serial killers. 

 

Roger grasped the edge of the couch tightly in his hands. “He forced me to have our kids,” He managed. “I didn’t want kids back then. But he insisted. Pushed me onto the bed and…” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

“I want the kids now. But I didn’t. And that fact, when it has time to, eats away at me.” 

 

“Just like everything else,” Evan observed. 

 

Roger nodded. “Mark can’t-Mark can’t find me here,” he whispered. “If he finds me-” 

 

“I know. I won’t tell him.” 

 

“Promise!” Roger’s voice came out as a strangled cry.

 

“I promise. Do you need to go soon?” 

 

Roger nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll come back when-when I can.” 

 

“Okay,” said Evan, and Roger fled out the door, terrified of what Mark would do if he knew. 


	9. Everywhere

Roger was back on the couch again, before Evan walked in. “Early today?” Evan asked pleasantly, attempting to maintain a neutral tone. 

 

Roger nodded. “Had more time,” he groaned into the fabric of the couch pillow. “Told Mark I was...buying groceries.” 

 

“Alright.” Evan swung his leg up on a desk as he sat down. Roger briefly thought he was handsome. But the thought died as quickly as it had come, a brief flicker gone too soon. 

 

“He’s gotten worse over the years,” Roger began. “So, so…much worse. He thinks he’s-tamed me. That I don’t have, have any rebellious spirit.” 

 

Evan stayed silent, knowing this wasn’t the time to interrupt Roger. He was an intelligent man. 

 

“He’s just…” Roger breathed shakily, but Evan noticed it was somewhat calmer than last time. “I hate him.” 

 

“That’s understandable,” Evan responded. “Tell me more, would you?” 

 

_ No.  _

 

_ No no no fuck no.  _

 

_ White white everywhere white everywhere him.  _

 

_ I can’t escape him.  _

 

_ Years earlier  _

 

_ Roger had snapped  _

 

_ He’d yelled at Mark  _

 

_ Said the truth for once  _

 

_ And Mark  _

 

_ It had been a fight  _

 

_ The kids didn’t know  _

 

_ Didn’t know what was happening  _

 

_ Roger  _

 

_ Mark  _

 

_ “And you’re manipulative, and you-” _

 

_ “Tell me more, would you?” Mark snapped. His eyes were angry. Not unusual. But he smirked at Roger.  _

 

_ And then-  _

 

_ Kissed him.  _

 

_ Roger didn’t have a choice  _

 

_ I never have a choice  _

 

“Roger? Roger!” 

 

Roger opened his eyes to see Evan looking at him, extremely concerned. Roger was curled up into a ball on the couch. He was crying. Sobbing. 

 

“Please don’t,” Roger said, barely audible.

 

“Okay. I want you to be okay.” 

 

_ That’s all I want too, Evan.  _


	10. Fruit of Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore.

“And done,” Mark muttered as he pulled the knife out of his victim’s back, the silver surface gleaming with blood. Mark had never been one much for carving, but slicing straight down this man’s back was a relief. The  _ crunch  _ and  _ pops  _ of bones as Mark tore his knife through them were audibly satisfying. 

Mark kicked at the body, making the naked form crumple to the floor. He considered chopping off other limbs-perhaps the penis? 

Mark grinned and went around to the front, propping the body up. He looked into its eyes and grinned at the victim. “You don’t like this, do you?” Mark asked, gleeful. “I wouldn’t think so. This is what happens to you all in the end. _ We  _ come for you. And you’d better be happy, because it’s much more honorable having died fighting a murderer than lying sick in bed.” 

The corpse did not respond, blood still slowly dripping out of its back. Mark laughed. 

“You don’t cross me,” he hissed, drawing his knife along the chin, drawing blood, “I’ll find out. I’ll get to you.” 

Mark looked down and shrugged, deciding to indeed chop the penis of the corpse off. It rolled off somewhere. Mark didn’t care to look for it. It’s not like anyone would need that any time soon. (Or use it. Mark shivered at the thought of someone using a detached penis for sexual pleasure.) 

“I’d hide you,” Mark began again, waving the bloodied knife around as he talked as if it were an extra limb, “but those damn stupid policemen wouldn’t find you if I placed you in the middle of Central Park! And,  _ and- _ the news wants an interview with me tomorrow. Hiding you just makes things too hard.” Mark sighed. “But adding other people into the mix makes things too complicated. This is why I work alone.” He scowled and walked off, letting the dismembered naked body drop to the floor and bleed out til it was dry. 

“Eh, this blood wouldn’t taste good anyway,” Mark muttered, looking back one last time before deciding to head home. 


	11. Anger

    Mark sat at the table, bored as fuck. This meeting was turning out to be exactly how he had imagined it-all talk and no killing.

    “Cohen,” one guy said. Mark looked up, bored and distracted. “What do you want?” he asked. Terror of Menlo Park, Mark remembered, was this guy’s name. TMP. And, in their serial killer group chat, they’d shortened it to “TP”. 

    TP frowned. “We were asking what you thought of Blood’s work,” he said. “You know, this weekend, with the shark tank?”

    Mark sat up straight and drummed his fingers on the table. “Shark tank?” he asked in his calm but deadly voice. 

    Blood, a thuggish killer at the other end of the table, nodded. 

    “Well, then,” Mark said, standing up and putting his hands on the table. “Come with me.” 

    Blood obeyed Mark, following him out the door. 

    Mark Cohen did not take clichés lightly. 

    - 

    When Blood didn’t come to the next meeting, no one questioned it. But they all sat far away from Mark - he had a placid smile on his face as he drummed his fingers on the table. 

    The epitome of happiness. 


	12. James

      James was an ordinary man. So “ordinary”, in fact, he seemed like a character straight out of the ideal American 1950’s. He was heading back home from work one day, tugging the cuffs on the ends of his sleeves straight, when he passed the foreboding alleyway that was always on his way home. He knew it was a shortcut to his house, and he knew that traffic was crazy at this time of night. His eyes darting around, searching for sketchy figures, but locating none. He stepped into the alley, his pristine, shined shoes producing an echoing crunch. The buildings around him were tall and created a kind of acoustic space. He figured that must be the reason his shoes sounded like four rather than two.  
      He stopped in the middle of the alleyway. Something had occurred to him, but as soon as he stopped, he lost his train of thought. “Darn,” he said aloud, “What was I thinking of?” 

      “Maybe how awful your coworker’s day at work tomorrow will be.” 

       A voice shocked James and he spun around. A blondish-red haired man stood facing him, strings on his blue hoodie uneven, hands in his jean pockets. His hair was mussed up. His head was crooked, and he smiled in a way that wasn’t quite unwelcoming but just strange enough to put James on edge. He was a stark contrast to James’ starched suit. The man had spoken in a calm voice, matter-of-factly, not faltering throughout his strange, _strange_ sentence.   
      “Who are you?” James asked, trying to keep his voice even, unable to keep the tremble out of it.   
      The blond man opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, as if thinking. As if forgetting his name. Maybe just forgetting an alias...  
      “Mar...tin,” the man said slowly, the word releasing from his mouth weirdly yet having a strange, unworldly rhythm to it. “And you? Jim? Jack?”   
      “Uh...James,” James said slowly. He was unnerved by how close this odd, creepy man had been.  
      “Oh, that’s right,” the man said, walking towards James, his voice still having that vibe to it. James couldn’t put his finger on what it sounded like. The man put his hand on James’s shoulder. It was wet. Warm...sticky? “James. Such a simple name. Such a simple man. What would you ever do to deserve this?”   
      “Wh-“ The knife sliced through James’s torso faster than the one-syllable name. He was about to slump to the ground but the stranger caught him in a headlock.   
      “You’ve done plenty to deserve this,” hissed the blond man James refused to think of as “Martin”. That _couldn’t_ be his real name... _this_ couldn’t be real.   
      James coughed, choking, into his hand and elbow, saliva and blood staining the sleeve of his suit and his palm. He couldn’t talk.   
      “I’ll have fun carving you up.”   
      James didn’t feel the knife slicing through his head.   
  
      The next time Mark had a meeting, he decided to dress fancy for it. He quickly dressed up in what was the newest suit to hang in his closet. He had Roger help him with the buttons, and although it didn’t fit perfectly, it was good enough. He stood in front of the mirror next, admiring the suit. He walked out the door in the suit with the red stain on the sleeve.   
      He claimed it was wine. 


	13. Cheater, Cheater

_It’s too late for my mama. It’s too late for me now._

 

    They were words from a play he’d seen once, a line said by just one of the characters. He smirked. He could relate to it. Of course maybe it would be more his dad...running off with a woman way too old for him, who would later become Mark’s mother.

    Mark lifted up his hand robotically and knocked on the apartment door in front of him. A shiny gold diamond plaque on it read _328._ Crystal should be in.

    A blonde woman wearing a tacky denim jacket opened the door. She was still slathering on lipstick, far too much in Mark and anyone’s opinion. She was a retired stripper who still kept to the shoewear from her glory days.

    Mark smiled, then grabbed her hand and leaned down to kiss it. “A vision in denim,” he said, his voice oily velvet like a snake charmer’s. A slight hiss layered under it to match. Crystal frowned, but then smiled almost genuinely.

    “Come in here you animal,” she said, pulling Mark in and shutting the door behind him.

    Mark grinned. He wouldn’t get rid of her tonight. But sometime soon. Then he could move on to someone new.


	14. Chapter 14

“You really won’t leave today?” 

Mark said this as he walked into the kitchen where Roger was preparing breakfast. Roger tensed up, quickly relaxing so Mark didn’t see. He really wished Mark wouldn’t sneak up on him like that. 

“I won’t,” said Roger, “no, I’m not going to.” He’d been going ‘grocery shopping’ more and more often since he’d been seeing Evan for therapy. Mark didn’t complain-more food for Roger to cook, less time for the two of them to interact. Which was fine. For the most part. The kids were at school already, Mark allowed them to go early-why wouldn’t he? They were murdering people like he was now. 

Well, maybe not quite like him. 

“Good.” Mark came up and kissed Roger’s cheek. “I have another meeting today. We’re planning to get that guy on Homestead Street.” 

“Why?” 

“He’s onto us.” Mark’s voice darkened. “And you know we can’t have that.” 

Mark left. 

 

Roger had the house to himself. That was…rare. Or maybe it wasn’t, but he didn’t really have a lot to do today. Now  _ that  _ was rare. 

He decided to go and take a nap in his room. 

He fell onto the bed, the blanket a soft cloud to land on, and soon, sleep took him and shut his eyes. 

What a horrible thing to wake up to. 

Mark was above him, and Roger couldn’t see his face. But he could certainly feel him. 

Oh, God, could he feel him. 

Mark scrambled up to grab Roger’s face and kiss him. Roger kissed back, it being an automatic thing now. 

Mark grinned. His smile seemed to be asking if Roger liked this. 

Roger gave the smallest nod. 

 

And then, somehow, finally, it was over. It was done. 

 


	15. Snuff Film

INT. - HOUSE - DAY

 

_ I walk into the house. VICTIM is sleeping. Ugh. I like when they struggle.  _

 

_ I look around, seeing what I could rob from this place. A smile creeps across my lips.  _

 

MARK: This’ll be fun. 

_ I walk further back and into the victim’s room. He is old. Asleep.  _

 

VICTIM: Zzzzzzzz. 

 

_ I put the blade of my knife under him and use it to flip him over. I then stick my knife into his neck, and twist it so that his bones make that delightful crunch.  _

VICTIM:  _ (Grunts briefly.)  _

 

_ I slice down through his neck and all the way down his back. This is the most fun part-once I reach his hips I cut his torso off of his body. It’s gushing blood.  _

 

MARK: So beautiful…amazing… 

 

_ I’m not a cannibal. I know what I am.  _

 

MARK: It’s time. 

 

_ I climb onto the bed.  _

 

_ FADE OUT.  _


	16. Pleasure

    Mark had never been so deep inside a corpse before. He grunted as he kept thrusting, blood dripping out of every orifice he’d thrust into the corpse. He was thirsty-in the sexual way. 

He leaned down and kissed the back of the corpse. “Thank you,” he murmured against the clammy skin. “You have sustained me.” 

Mark would do great things. He already had. With a kill count of one hundred and twenty-seven, who could doubt his legacy? 

Blood spurted from the holes in the corpse where its arms and legs used to be. Mark loved chopping off its limbs and tossing them to the side, not bothering to take care of them. He reached up his knife and chopped through the neck. The head fell down and rolled off, going  _ wbwbwbwb  _ across the floor, glazed eyes staring at Mark. 

Mark grinned. “That’s right,” he said. “You’ll never feel again.” 

He panted as he came and then pulled out. He wiped his hands on his pants and got up, then headed back home. 


	17. Winning

     Mark walked into the room where Roger was laying on the bed, eyes closed. Mark grinned. Sleeping again, huh? Perfect for him. He climbed on top and straddled Roger’s waist, beginning to take off his clothes when Roger’ eyes snapped open.

    “I knew you’d come!” Roger scrambled back up the pillow, leaving Mark further down on his legs. “I knew the timing would be right, perfect to catch you in action-I knew it!”

    Mark sighed. “Really?” He said. “What exactly is your plan?”

    “That was it,” Roger said, somehow managing to meet Mark’s eyes. He had to be brave now. He was immensely terrified. “And then I-I-...” He glanced at Mark’s pants, then quick as a flash reached for the knife in Mark’s pocket. He grabbed on but Mark rapidly grabbed the knife too.

    The two stared at each other for a minute. Roger with wild ferocity, angry, Mark with slight confusion that Roger wasn’t completely subdued. _Oh well,_ he thought, _there’s still time to tame him._

“You’re a monster,” Roger hissed, “and I’m not going to put up with you any longer.” He held tight onto the knife with such ferocity that his knuckles were turning white.

    Mark glared down at him. “You won’t be able to do it,” he said. “You’re weak. You’re a coward. I’ve broken you down to a shell. You wouldn’t be able to kill if the person you hated most on the planet walked in right now.”

    “He’s already here!” Roger shouted, plunging the knife into Mark’s chest.

          Mark glanced down and then back at Roger, then laughed. “You don’t know how to kill.”  

          “Weird how you think somebody could live with you for years and not know how to kill,” Roger rebutted, sweat dripping down his forehead. He grabbed the knife again and yanked it out of Mark’s chest. “I’m going to stab you as many times as I can, to get revenge for all you’ve ever done to me.” Roger spit at Mark.

          Mark grinned. “Try it,” he said. “You’ll never win. You’re just a weak, spineless, empty coward I got all the fight out of a long time ago, you have nothing to live for. You. Are. _Nothing.”_

         “Argh!” Roger stabbed Mark again, twisting the knife as it cut into his body. Roger with his other hand managed to push Mark off the bed. The knife that was still in Roger’s hand pulled him off and onto Mark as well.

    Roger was finally on top. He would finally win.

    ”You’ll never be able to do it,” Mark hissed. “You’re mine.”

    Roger stabbed him. “This is for every night you’ve woken me up,” he said, and stabbed Mark again. “That’s for every time you’ve given me an olive for dinner.”

    He stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.

    “This is for Mimi and this is for forcing me to have kids and this is for how you’ve made our kids think and this is for making me have to do this and this is because it’s needed!” Roger shouted out the last word, but it died in the air.

    “Can’t...win…” Mark barely wheezed out. He somehow still grinned.

    “Die!” Tears were streaming down Roger’s face, memories of all Mark had ever done to him running through his head. He raised the knife one last time and brought it down, straight into Mark’s heart.

    Mark’s eyes rolled back in his head and his head lolled onto the floor.

    He was finally, finally gone.

    Roger stood up, leaving the knife in Mark. He walked out of the room. 


	18. Roger, As He Is

**One Year Later**

 

Roger was walking down the hall with Marian, looking at the rooms and thinking how he’d felt a little less than a year ago coming here for the first time. They were a self-proclaimed “charity for the spouses of serial killers”, though they didn’t quite advertise that way. They had reached out to Roger after he’d killed Mark. Clearly, they had some double agents in the serial killer industry. 

“How was your visit yesterday?” Marian politely asked him, her nurse’s uniform just slightly wrinkled. It was kind of a turquoise. Roger was just glad it wasn’t dark blue. 

“Good,” Roger said quietly. He was still working on being more confident after years of being treated like a-like a what? Object, slave, choose your adjective. Whatever. He wasn’t going to focus on that. “The kids are...adjusting to school. We still have some, er, ideological differences...but it’s getting better….I think…” Roger trailed off, looking at a spot in the fleur-de-lis on the wall. 

Marian gently touched his shoulder. Roger didn’t tense up when she did that anymore. She was easy to be around. She helped him. Just like Evan had before. 

“Alright, well, your room’s here…” Marian stood awkwardly in the hallway, briefly playing with her hair. The dim lights shown on her red curls all knotted up into a bun. Roger was good at spotting small details by now. A not truly genuine smile. A thirst for a vice. 

“I’ve lived here almost a year, I know that…” Roger’s words tapered off into a mumble at the end - he didn’t want to be resistant. 

“It’s alright,” Marian reminded him gently in her lovely soft voice. Roger nodded, and opened the door to his room. He didn’t say anything back. 

Roger sat down at the chair in front of the desk in his room. His fingers absentmindedly started tracing imaginary patterns onto the desk. Above it sat a TV - something was on the news. 

“...on Thursday this new therapist was drawing some attention. There were rumors of him being connected to the Phantom of New York….” 

Roger bolted straight up and stared, wide-eyed, at the screen. 

“He has done wonders for his clients, who have spoken up about his amazing patience and wonderful free therapy plan.” 

Roger sat back down in the chair and sighed out of relief. Evan was still good. He knew that, he saw him twice a week. 

With all of this, Roger could start to be alright again. 


End file.
